


Untouchable

by BorkMork



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24016384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorkMork/pseuds/BorkMork
Summary: "There were certain concepts that were hard to describe when it came to Steven Universe’s life. He struggled from his restless nights and the drowning anxiety, but it couldn’t compare to the daunting apprehension of being submerged in the deep and metaphorical when he became, for one day, the monster on the Beach City coast. The day where Steven felt nothing but the suspense of seawater, where the grasp of the physical was nothing but a dream, and the idea of being grounded became untouchable — untouchable in the worst sense of the word."Steven gets reassurance after being haunted by a nightmare of his transformation.My piece of an art trade for @BellsnWhistles on Discord!
Relationships: Connie Maheswaran/Steven Universe
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Untouchable

There were certain concepts that were hard to describe when it came to Steven Universe’s life. He struggled from his restless nights and the drowning anxiety, but it couldn’t compare to the daunting apprehension of being submerged in the deep and metaphorical when he became, for one day, the monster on the Beach City coast. The day where Steven felt nothing but the suspense of seawater, where the grasp of the physical was nothing but a dream, and the idea of being grounded became untouchable — untouchable in the worst sense of the word.

Steven felt it back when he was sixteen on the day he transformed. He felt the instability in support, how his nerves withered at the seams with each tactless decision and wary comeuppance. It was hard for him to think about those memories now as something tangible or real; in fact, he always thought of it as a dream. The memories and how it all led up to his transformation were so clogged in emotion that it couldn’t have been a physical event. The whole ordeal was a turbulent ocean, but something that couldn’t have been real. There had to be a misunderstanding, a shift in his family’s paradigms at the recollection of the event. When he asked for details, however, he was brought to the reality that his creature form was real. The monster on the Beach City coast, the one who’s reptilian head punctured the side of the temple front and ravaged waves at his loved ones, was him. Everything he had done was all him. But the discussions didn’t feel real even when he pondered over them. He didn’t feel pain in his jaw or the restraint of water against his purple-leathered wrists. There had to be a mistaken perception. The prospect of being out of control was too terrifying to describe.

Yet his therapy sessions made it clear to him that his monster form ruptured from the back of his spine. His loved ones saw it with their own eyes. They had the logic down-pat from seeing it happen right in front of them, and throughout all the reassurances he still felt pathetic, weak. He blamed it on the dark nights, the temptations of bad thoughts when his mind felt empty, and the feeling that always came back whenever he thought about his brief moment of hysteria.

Panic. Drowning. Lungs burned and writhed and useless. His mind at the incident was active in the blanket of darkness that enveloped him. Like a soul vacant of a corpse, kept secret in a location it couldn’t distinguish and was too afraid to explore, there were bound stimuli that haunted his mind and body. Where the weight bore on him like a planet upon his lungs, the fear was an overload, a bog, a decrepit hook to the heart. He couldn’t breathe nor say a word, and it left him apprehensive, languid. Blood rushed up to nowhere. Thoughts poured like drippings at his feet. The numbness was a gradient, a trepidation — and when he swept himself into the nameless current of buzz and hum, Steven could only notice one clear thing: that he had nowhere to go but where he stood. And where he stood was nowhere.

The exhaustion he felt in the aftermath was like glass shattered upon a surface. There was relief in being held, to hear the ocean and see his best friend smiling upon him with gleaming eyes. Tears and heat were beaten through the silent clamor as the world grounded itself into something recognizable. He wasn’t lost in the sweep of anything. The pivotal surface he came to was fleshed and solid, an artificial cluster of muscle with muscle. And when he cried a waterfall, a mess of snot and salt, he believed that he was safe, that it was okay to let go and release the waterworks that yearned for longly catharsis. It was ugly, relieving, a thin veil of what was to come later, and he wished for the feeling to remove itself through the horrible wrench of his lungs.

The healing process started off small. There were twilights where he would be restless on the balcony, lost on what to do and where to go. His family had paid attention to him and brought the needed responsibility to the table, but the guilt wrestled with him. There were nights where, amidst the purple-yellow horizon, Steven would be on his bed, a prepared juice glass on his table, and he didn’t want to move. He would sleep for hours; there were countless moments where he watched the light through his windows appear and fade in the blink of an eye. Time wasn’t of the essence when you were afraid to go outside. But he took the chance to better himself when the opportunities arose. He listened to different strategies from his family and it all came down to the conclusion that he had to go seek professional help.

Priyanka, after some discussion and heated argument with his dad, was selected to be his general practitioner and had scheduled an appointment in a few days. Documents were assigned, written by him and his guardians, and the first sessions of therapy were planned two days a week. The days passed by in an instant for him, but it felt too long, too ceaseless to bear. Sometimes it disgusted him that he was supposedly making progress when it felt like he didn’t show progress at all. What was he supposed to do knowing that they were wasting time that would be better spent on better causes? Like healing people, bringing the corrupted back from the sea of numerous bubbles in the core of the Temple. They kept going, however, and with each session, he found himself in the bathroom mirror with shadows and red lines under his eyes. Tissues were discarded in the trash bin. The couch was dug into from anxiety, habits of fear. His therapist continued the questions, gave him time to spew each mangled string of thought that seeped out from his brain. It pained him to feel so out of touch, but there was comfort in being told that it was alright, that it was okay to feel angry, impatient. Because he was a human, she told him — humans trip, fall, cry, laugh, and get angry over what’s important to them. Humans were allowed to show their pain, to see their trauma as important because it _is_.

And with that revelation, it began to get better, a little better. Walks through Beach City made him less anxious. Medication kept stringent thoughts under a net, made them mellow out and become white noise in the background, allowed him to walk without the feeling of being bogged. Steven started to do more assignments. He kept his hand on Connie’s when she walked beside him during date nights. Steven wrote down words in his journal over self-affirmation, lines of rationale, lies that were supposed to be truths; that things will be okay, that no matter how turbulent the waves became he’ll be standing somewhere with a smile in the end. And he was important, a priority. He deserved no pain. He didn’t deserve to oblige past grievances from family drama. He allowed beliefs to pass through without fighting them, accepting the concept that he was important, worthy of love. It started to become manageable, sustainable.

The years passed, and things traversed from the mythical to the believable. Steven felt the betterment, the relaxed inhales and exhales from his chest, and when he suggested one day to go on a journey of self-discovery, he was allowed to start planning. There were days where he posted messages to his management app on what should be done. He discussed it with his father, his best friend, and everyone else who was brought in on the idea. Memories seemed long ago when he attempted to recall every face and expression on the beaches he went to or the hugs he garnered from his wife or his new friends from the cities. It felt odd to find independence and boundaries, when years earlier he feared dying alone.

And to think he still had horrible terrors like right now, when he jolted up from bed in sudden fight. That his heart pounded against his chest in rapid-fire — where the lack of control spiraled and left him trembling below the sheets. And the tick of the clock reminded him of the inky void, the restless surges through his bodiless soul. He felt clammy and stiff, ready to keel. Heat pricked at his eyes when he tried to focus on the darkness, to verify that his surroundings weren’t the mortifying stillness but the dim outline of his master bedroom.

It was hard to feel reassurance from Connie, even though she called his name in worry. It was hard to hold her when he trembled under an unknown pressure. But he could feel her there even with his attempts to calm himself down. Her fingers pressed him towards her as if her body conjured a protective bubble around them. She brought him back from whatever hell he clambered out of and allowed him to sob into her shoulder like a child reassured by his mother. In the hush between them, he rested upon her chest without a thought, paying no attention to the click of their lamp — it had gotten hard to see, anyway. They allowed themselves to rest in the comfort of another, listening in at the symphony of their own home. Outside, the winter season beat against the windows and howled at the walls, a soft environment compared to the violent nothingness that held him down prior.

Minutes passed by before Steven pulled away from her. The snot from his nose was everywhere and he winced at the sight of it.

“Ah geez, let me get a tissue.”

Connie smiled at him. “I can handle a bit of snot on me, honey.”

“But it’s gross,” he said.

She nodded. “Alright, go get ‘em.”

Steven propped himself up and stumbled into the bathroom. He didn’t remember how he even got the damp tissues when he came back, but it eased him with relief to focus on something other than the ache of his body. They cleaned the mess up and discarded them at the bin, leaving Connie to embrace him again when he came back.

“Feeling a bit better now?”

“A lil.”

Connie gazed at him. It wasn’t judgemental, which was good. He worried for a lifetime on being judged, and his wife wasn’t the kind to do such a thing.

She pressed his head against her shoulder. “C’mere.”

Warmth was a companion, a gift in times such as this, and it felt amazing to be loved even when his skin crawled and his mind flashed to the inky-dark abyss. He let out a shaky breath.

“You’re going to be okay, Biscuit.” 

Connie embraced him, kept him wrapped in heat like a cup of cocoa. His fingers were numb; pressure was the only thing he could feel from them as they bunched up into the back of her collar, savoring the embrace.

Steven had difficulty in relaxing. The presence of the other, however, kept reminding him of his breathing exercises, and his thoughts slowed down now that he was given the ability to live and let live. No one was going to hurt him, he reminded himself. No one wanted to hurt him. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone. And he, himself, didn’t plan to move in the act of violence. These words were a mantra, something Steven had to get behind, even if the man felt witless.

Steven groaned and pressed his face more into his wife. “I feel like shit, Berry.”

“How shitty?” Connie mumbled.

“More shitty than that pie we ate at the drive-thru.”

She snorted. “That’s a lot of shitty.”

His giggle was scratchy. “Yeah, not a good reference. It’s a lot worse, actually.”

Connie frowned at that more. “You want to talk about it, hun?” 

The world seemed to go stiff and breathless with how they kept themselves together. Steven believed it was a miracle that he even calmed down to begin with, especially with his mind swamped and murky. Fear gripped his heart in a vice, left him to think countlessly of what he could do and what he can do, but Connie being near him was the tether in a sea of opposed anxieties. There was nobody else to look at him at this moment but her, and it was weird to hear himself babble to her. It should’ve felt painful, tragic for himself to listen to, but his previous developments, his countless attempts at getting better, made it hurt less as he spilled his heart out in the quiet.

The words poured out like garbage. It felt putrid, unsustainable, yet needed. Each claim — of being scared, of being terrified of the past, of the hellish landscape he could only feel rather than see — was crucial and Steven knew this. _She_ knew this. Connie didn’t deserve a lover who shook and rambled to himself about stuff he should’ve dealt with back at sixteen, but the rationale in his mind told him that it was worth it. That he deserved to be held rather than left to fend for himself. So he kept going, until the next line spilled over.

“I’m scared that I’ll hurt you. That I’ll make the mistake of closing my eyes and the next moment you’re gone because of something that I did.”

He gritted his teeth.

“I can’t control the feeling or the form. I don’t know if I even could...and that’s terrifying to think about. That I could lose everything and everyone if one relapse was worse than the rest.”

Steven looked at her and watched the way she listened, how keen she was in being silent even when he knew wholeheartedly that she had something to say, something to tell him. He wished to be like her sometimes. Connie always had a hint of a plan on her whenever things went awry. She was the kind to bring up outlines and strategies when diplomacy got tough. But something about her right now left him stunned, observant to her countenance. Her expression was careful and diligent, hesitant on uttering a word.

“How long have these thoughts been going?”

“Getting more frequent this year. I thought therapy would take care of it but,” he sighed. “It didn’t.”

“Ah.” 

She clicked her tongue.

“We’ll need to write this down for our sessions then.” Her words were methodical, careful in the way they were handled. Connie knew times like these needed a level-headed voice, but Steven didn’t know if he wanted one right now. “This sounds like something that needs to be talked about a lot more in a professional scenario.”

“I know.” Steven sighed. She looked determined to help him, but there was discomfort in having her plan in advance when he still felt disquieted. “But what if therapy won’t work? It’s still hard to think about certain things like Jasper, my mom, and everything else. I could hurt people if it goes too far.”

She was warm against him. Her pajamas smelled of lavender and eased him with its familiar scent even when she pulled away from him. Connie kept that stern bridge between her brows. There was a fire in her eyes, the same one that considered every factor, every trajectory, like it was an obstacle to be tackled.

“But you won’t do that, Steven. Therapy might be a long-term process, but it’s better than not mending the problem at all.”

Steven bit his lip. There was a resistance in his chest. He didn’t know how distinct it was from the pound of his heart, but it grew with her words. “But Connie…”

“Hm?” She looked at him. The flash of methodology was gone. What replaced it was worry, the same concern people would show him when something went amiss in his presence. No, no it wasn’t like that. Her face looked more careful than anything. “Are you okay?”

He exhaled. “I’m not fine.”

Connie flinched. Of course she did. She must’ve known it was the wrong thing to say; to say something so blatant like that by impulse made guilt. And guilt was human as any other emotion she had.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay, Berry.” He gave her a tiny smile and held her hands tightly in his. His fists overwhelmed her hands, his palms leaving her warm from the contact. “I just don’t want to plan right now.”

He brushed a thumb against her knuckles. “I’d rather talk about this. Talk about it in the _now_ than later.”

The worry lines on Connie’s face lessened. She squeezed him in return, the fire in her eyes now a low burn, hopeful and open. “Okay. Then let’s talk.”

Steven nodded. His voice rose a little. “I could use another hug right now.”

“Come here, big guy.”

He brought himself forward and she was happy to hold him in her comfort. Connie’s arms were strong, muscled from years of training and exercise even after the end of Era Two; he wanted her to sweep him into the lovely quiet just like this, to have her keep him safe, away from the thoughts in his mind.

“I love you so much.” Steven’s words were muffled against her chest, but it didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the reciprocation, the relief in her presence.

“I love you too, hun.” He felt her heartbeat more. “I really do.”

“I’m just scared that I’ll hurt you...”

“But you won’t,” she whispered. “You won’t hurt anyone because you are trying, and trying is better than not trying at all.”

“You don’t know that.” His voice shook, left trembling against her shoulder. “We don’t know how far I’ll go. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And you won’t, Biscuit.”

Her fingers brushed the locks of his hair, made him sigh into the growing tranquility of their room. There was the tick of the clock, how it resonated and made him tired even with the anxiety, the fear. But over time the lingering emotions that drenched him from his nightmares started to go away, little by little, and the wind outside became less of a fiend and more of a companion, a balm to the wound.

“When your breakdown happened, I knew that you didn’t want to hurt us.”

He heard recounts of him as he bashed the cliff walls with his head, the ever-present fact that he pushed people back, splintered the front of the beach house when he blacked out.

“I had to alert the citizens to flee the town, but I kept an eye on you. And I'll be serious with you, nobody had gotten hurt by you.”

Steven listened to the scratch of the windows, the hollow tap of the wind. He wondered if Connie was hearing it too.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure." She winced. "You were trying to isolate yourself more than hurt anyone."

Steven took in tiny breaths against her collar. "Oh."

"Yeah." She leaned into him.

There was something relaxing about being in each other’s arms through the snowfall. It reminded him of moments when the cold became docile, fleeting, and in that silence came a silent recognition of the other, a vulnerability never spoken but acted upon. There wasn’t anyone to tell them what was wrong or what should be improved or whether things would get better. There wasn’t any factor that made them feel unwanted or scathed. They could go about this at their own pace, and that’s fine. It left him content, happy even.

“It’s still hard to think that everything I’d done was right or wrong or anything in between,” he admitted finally. “I ask myself if I missed anything — that someone had never forgiven me for my actions — but…”

Steven stopped there. It was hard to admit one’s self as human; it was harder to admit to one’s self that you didn’t deserve misery for being human.

“I’m just glad that I could focus on the beginning steps.”

Connie pressed a kiss to his forehead, soft and loving. “You’re farther ahead than you realize.”

Steven hummed. 

“I am.”

“And it takes years, Biscuit.” She mumbled something illegible to herself. “If I had a penny for every relapse I had this year...we’d get twenty pennies.”

Connie frowned at that. 

“But that’s still a lot,” she admitted. 

Connie was stubborn and loyal. She always was. It was hard sometimes to remember how vulnerable she could be when he was trying hard to change for the better, but when the moments happened — when the two screwed up, when both of them argued and panicked in the plight of repressed feelings — he made it his mission to be there for her just like how she did the same for him. She was human. It took years of her fighting the same battles as him to admit that therapy was something she needed too. But even with the couples therapy and their own specific methods of coping, he hesitated on asking to hug her. He had sessions where his therapist told him that it was okay to bring comfort in his life, through the relapses and the helplessness, the uncertainty that still shone through the most vulnerable of nights. When he couldn’t keep up with the self-awareness and the mind unraveled from past tribulation, he sought after the comfort and pushed it away at the same time. In that struggle came Steven’s want to fight, and here, in his reluctance, he brought himself to a smile.

“And my relapses are...fourteen pennies.”

He couldn’t help but giggle.

“That’s still a lot of pennies!”

And the two of them started to laugh together. There was a comic enjoyment in how far they’d come, how much distance they trekked even with the destination of recovery still miles away. But even then it took years for them to admit that something was amiss, that emotions were scarred and adjusted from the earlier days of their youth. That they weren’t untouchable, but fluid in heart and mind, human like any other.


End file.
